


The Man in Black

by Artemis (Citrine)



Category: Colditz (1972), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Slash, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-09
Updated: 2012-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-18 07:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citrine/pseuds/Artemis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is he a spy?</p>
<p>One of ours?</p>
<p>One of theirs? He speaks perfect German.</p>
<p>That doesn’t prove anything. Watson has already discovered that he also speaks perfect French and excellent Polish.  His English is upper-class, clipped and precise, and otherwise unidentifiable.  He claims to be a captain, but he never mentions a regiment and unlike the rest of the British prisoners he doesn’t wear a uniform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Man in Black

**Author's Note:**

> What happens when I watch Edward Hardwicke in Colditz one night and Granada's Sherlock Holmes the next.

Is he a spy?

One of ours?

One of theirs? He speaks perfect German.

That doesn’t prove anything. Watson has already discovered that he also speaks perfect French and excellent Polish.  His English is upper-class, clipped and precise, and otherwise unidentifiable.  He claims to be a captain, but he never mentions a regiment and unlike the rest of the British prisoners he doesn’t wear a uniform.

The man in black just wears black, slacks and a sweater with the metal Colditz dog tags they all have gleaming dully against the black wool.  Watson is convinced that the name he goes by is an alias. Moriarty.  James Moriarty. It just doesn’t feel right and it doesn’t sound right when he twists his tongue around it, so he avoids it whenever he can and calls him ‘old chap’ most of the time.

Perhaps Colonel Preston, the Senior British Officer knows his real name. He had a long interview with Preston the day he arrived and an even longer one with the camp commandant, but no one knows what was said in either conversation.  Afterwards the SBO tells Dr Watson to keep an eye on the newcomer. When Watson asks if he’s meant to be a spy or a bodyguard Colonel Preston doesn’t answer.  Two days later a couple of the British officers decide to teach the newcomer a lesson and it quickly becomes apparent that he’s quite capable of taking care of himself.

After that most of his fellow prisoners give him a wide berth. He keeps himself to himself as much as possible and quickly gains a reputation for being eccentric. A queer fish, Brent calls him and although Watson knows that he means peculiar it gives him an uncomfortable moment.

Occasionally, when the boredom sets in Watson’s comrades question him about the mysterious man in black. 

“You’re the only one he really talks to,” Player says, “and you sleep on top of him, don’t you?”

A long shiver runs down Watson’s spine.  He has the top bunk and that’s all that Player’s referring to, but the chance would be a fine thing.  The chance of a bit of privacy and a warm, lean body stretched out next to his. Once he would have said that he wasn’t like that, but after three years in this place he can barely remember who he was or what he was before the war.  

When an RAF lieutenant is brought in by the SS, battered and bruised, one arm hanging at unnatural angle, the prisoners in the courtyard jeer and hiss the Germans. Only the man in black stands still and silent.

“He isn’t even human,” Flight lieutenant Carter rages afterwards.

Watson knows that he is human when he says ‘yes’ and ‘please’ and ‘don’t stop’.  They take chances, making love in lumber rooms, attics and toilets. Discovery is inevitable and it’s Carter who barges in on them, lip curling in distaste. Lieutenant Carter reports them to Colonel Preston and the SBO tears Watson off a strip and tells him that it has to stop.

It doesn’t.

Everyone knows by now, but together they are formidable and after a few hard fought fights, their fellow prisoners confine themselves to sneers and snide remarks.

The Germans don’t know. That isn’t why they come for the man in black, Watson’s dear old chap, one October morning.  He is frog marched away, down to the car that waits with its engine running and all Watson can do is to be grateful that they are Weimar, not Gestapo.

Some of the British prisoners cheer his departure and when Watson tries to go back to his bunk a couple of them block the doorway. Colonel Preston tells them to leave him alone and they do so reluctantly, with the threat of future retribution lurking in their eyes.

Watson lies on the bottom bunk with his arm over his eyes. The others ignore him. They play droughts, write letters home and some of them start to sing. He rolls over to face the wall. His hand slips under the thin pillow and touches a scrap of paper.  The message is written in pale pencil.

_221B Baker Street. SH_

The singing fills the air around him. Watson scrubs his hand across his eyes and hides the torn-off paper in his jacket pocket.  It’s a promise, a hope, a destination.

When this lousy war is over...


End file.
